


Crows of War

by exmachinarium



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Mild Gore, Rough Sex, Smut, Supernatural Elements, War, mythology inspired, vaguely Celtic, war specific violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 04:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18358487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmachinarium/pseuds/exmachinarium
Summary: "You hold each other's gaze in silence for a moment before you turn to go. It is only then that the boy speaks up, his words almost drowned in the flutter of his crow's wings.'We shall not meet upon this ground again.'"A warrior, a boy, an escaped prisoner - three fates become entangled in a grim prophecy as a revenge party sets out towards their enemy's territory to right the wrongs of the past.





	Crows of War

**Author's Note:**

> First non-fanfic posted on AO3, that's not stressful at all. Pretty old one as well. It was originally submitted to [The Book of Imaginary Beasts](https://imaginarybeasts.livejournal.com/) on LJ, although I believe that one's quite dead right now. Heavily inspired by the songs _Something The Boy Said_ by Sting, and _The Warpath_ by Conner Youngblood.
> 
> Big thanks, as before, to [Err](https://archiveofourown.org/users/errantknightess/) for beta and some added Celtic-ness.

Dawn has not yet streaked the horizon with red, but the gates are already open, men and horses waiting impatiently for the sign to ride out westwards. To victory and just revenge upon their once kinsmen, now traitors. Women and children bid their final farewells to fathers, husbands and sons that will fight and die for their safety. Once they have left the village, the women will head to the Sacred Place, deep within the woods, and lay down their sacrifices and prayers to the Goddess.

  
Leaving Barra in charge of the final preparations, you turn away from the crowd and direct your steps towards the hut at the very edge of your settlement. Drawing nearer, you notice your arrival has been awaited: the boy is standing outside, leaning on his crutch, eyes fixed on the road. When he spots you, he immediately straightens up and beckons you closer. Then he begins to inform you, in a hushed voice, about his father not feeling well enough to admit anyone. You were hoping to see him, receive words of blessing and advice before you leave, but fate cannot always be bent to one's wants. Something vicious stirs within your chest at the thought of the great man, the clan's former leader and mentor to you and your fellow warriors, rotting away within the walls of his dwelling, his brilliant and still sharp mind struggling helplessly against the confines of a treacherous old body.

  
The boy, Niall, remains oblivious to these thoughts. And though you should head back to your men immediately, you linger, observing the child's lean, unsteady frame as he connects the imprints of the birds' footsteps with the stick which usually serves as his crutch. Ever since the great fire, set to your houses and storages by the Westerners, his left leg remained numb, dragging behind as he walked. But even before that he lacked the strength and viciousness of a future leader.

  
In some strange way, the fire that nearly took away his life, as well as his father's, was the gods' blessing. Miraculously saved, he became the silent prophet of the Goddess. Her winged messengers guarded the boy's every step and were you to look up, you'd surely notice one or two circling the sky high above him. And even though no prophecy came from Niall's lips, the people treated him with respect he'd never deserve otherwise. Not with this fragile body and pale face, delicate despite the dark brand laid upon it by the flames.

  
A brand that has bound your fates together, the thought crosses your mind just as a crow lands heavily on Niall's shoulder, its dark eyes ogling you curiously.

"You will be leaving soon."

  
"Yes. I hoped to see your father before it happens."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, stroking the crow's head pensively.

You hold each other's gaze in silence for a moment before you turn to go. It is only then that the boy speaks up, his words almost drowned in the flutter of his crow's wings.

"We shall not meet upon this ground again."

  
A smile tugs at your chapped lips. You turn back and kneel before the boy, so that you're eye to eye.

"That may be. But once we overcome the Westerners, their grounds will become ours as well. When it's safe to pass, I'll send my best men to take you there," the crow, now residing on top of Niall's crutch, raises its beak to the cloudy skies. "And if we fail… One must be ready to accept the Fate."

"You are a wise man," the boy's smile is a pale reflection of your own as he holds your face in his thin hands and plants a kiss of blessing upon your forehead. "May the Goddess guide you."

Not a single sound more passes between you. But when you head back to your warriors, the horses beating the ground with their hooves, agitated, the words of Niall’s only prophecy linger in your ears.

*******

Barra veers his horse and looks up, his beady eyes narrowing till they can barely be seen in the expanse of his wide, angular face. The steed, not even half as massive as its rider, stomps uneasily, its nostrils flailing in annoyance. Something is not right and the whole party halts almost as abruptly as their second–in–command. Swords are drawn, alert gazes scan the premises in search of the incoming enemy.

"Above," Barra growls irritably, pointing upwards. "The Goddess' messenger."

Sure enough, in the sky hangs a small black spot – so insignificant against the masses of dark clouds that some of your men fail to notice it at all.

"The Goddess' messenger?" another warrior, dark–haired and restless, mocks in a harsh whisper. "More like the enemy's spy."

His hand twitches eagerly as he pulls out one of his arrows and aims, confident that it'll reach the target. But before he manages to let it loose, you step in and drag his bow down and away from the black dot. The look that the archer throws your way is a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

"No matter whom it serves, the enemy or the Goddess, She would not look kindly upon anyone slaughtering Her beloved flock. We're surrounded by enough enemies as it is, no need to anger Her, of all beings."

"He's right, Faolan," you hear Barra chiding his nephew as you turn back towards the path. "Once in the battlefield, you must repent to the Goddess by killing as many warriors as you can with those arrows of yours. Otherwise, She will demand your guts as an offering, remember that, boy."

Slivers of mocking laughter tell you that the young archer's reaction must be a hilarious sight. But Faolan doesn't talk back, obediently following his uncle instead. In spite of his short temper and the youthful urge to prove himself the bravest warrior of your tribe, fearless of even death itself, his skills are already remarkable. Should he survive this battle, and more battles to come, he might rise to a true greatness, much like Barra. Much like yourself.

He is nothing like Niall with his fragile, bird–like limbs and dreamy, unfocused eyes.

Even without looking up you can sense the presence of that tiny dot above your heads, almost hear the flutter of its wings as it soars lower, higher, and lower again. You spare a hasty prayer to the Goddess, hoping she'd be as merciful as she's hungry for blood and cries of war.

You're answered by silence.

*******

The day remains uneventful otherwise; and as the face of the Sun disappears beyond the horizon, you all set down to a well–deserved rest. Fires are lit, the men gather in smaller groups to eat and amuse themselves, exchanging stories of bravery or of ancient monstrosities that are said to hunt these parts of the land; all punctuated by roars of laughter or triumphant cries in honour of the fallen heroes. Only the camp guards, appointed in great haste, remain unaffected by their fellow warriors' merrymaking, their attention fully focused on the woods beyond. Even so far from your destination, you need to remain cautious of wild beasts and vengeful forest spirits.

  
Soon enough the ruckus dies down as your men settle to sleep, aware of the hardships of several days to come. Some complain about their fighting strength going to waste in the mundanity of the march through forests and moorlands, but you laugh it off, knowing that when it finally comes to battle, they'll be as eager to fight and take lives as ever.

  
The glow of beacons, flickering with each gust of wind that moves swiftly through the woods, marks the borderlines of your camp. Beyond the thin string of light there is only silence ringing in your ears and darkness so dense it seems to gouge out the eyes of anyone foolish enough to enter. From between the massive trees, from beneath the rocks and thick roots, you are watched by the invisible forest–dwellers, stirring, hovering at the edge of your settlement, their eerie, glowing eyes closing shut as soon as you turn your head in their direction. They're all waiting for the battle to come. For the bodies they can feast on, for skins they can dress in to lure the travellers passing through their realm.

  
Still gazing at the world beyond, you notice a silhouette more solid than a mere shadow. It moves towards you. Before you so much as think about it, your sword comes unsheathed to rest firmly in your grip.

The beast steps to the very edge of darkness and becomes a man.

  
Pale–faced and ragged, he looks you in the eye silently but surely, like a man facing his own death. His eyes seem flat, devoid of emotion and so still that at first you're fully convinced of the man's blindness. The hair is a mass of tousled and uneven strands of unusual brightness. Few silver threads glistening weakly against the darkness of his clothes betray their former finery, which was looked upon with jealous admiration in a foreign land that used to be home to this ghost of a man.

  
Curiosity halts your blade from splitting the intruder in two. You have heard songs about the western clan pushing back a siege from the North; but there was no mention of survivors.

  
"I have come to aid you," the ghost croaks out, voice hoarse from long neglect.

"Aid me?"

  
"Yes. The… Clan you wish to fight against has not yet learned of your men approaching, but soon enough they will. That's why you need me."

  
The sword points precisely at the enemy spy's neck. A single swing would tear the head off his body and there is nothing now that could possibly stop you from executing the blow. It's surprising how low some clans will stoop to gain dominance over the neighbouring land, even as the nameless Empire breathes down their neck.

"I have not been sent by your enemies – I've escaped them," the stranger seems unfazed by your silent threat. "I wished to speak with you."

"Speak with your lips or your blades?" you state more than ask. The stranger's belt is devoid of a sheath, but that's meaningless. You've heard enough about the men of distant North carving their way through their enemies with daggers and blades you have no name for, which they can hide even against bare skin. They are not unlike the hungry spirits hiding in the woods with their sharp claws and fangs, ready to strike as soon as you foolishly turn your back on them.

You half expect the man to draw whatever weapon is hidden beneath the cloak and try to kill you off in the last act of desperation. This would give your body an impulse, move your hand, and be done with the intruder swiftly and silently. Instead, the stranger reaches to the fastening of his cloak, unhinges it. The heavy black fabric slithers to the ground.

  
There is no clatter of weaponry, nothing apart from worn–out fabric and intricate metal clasps that drop around the stranger as he finally stands before you naked, his colourless eyes never leaving your face.

  
You can't help admiring the unfortunate spy a little, the way he stands his ground in such a humiliating situation. Not a crease in his brow, not even the slightest flinch at the nightly chill – he's perfectly still, reminding you of one of those marble statues you were told the Imperial soldiers surround themselves with wherever they settle down.

  
"Your name?" you ask, matching his calm with your own (even though your instincts never cease to cry murder).

  
"Dughall, my lord."

  
An amused scoff escapes your lips. 'Black Stranger'. A name stating nothing more than what you've already known. It fits him like no other name would, you think, your eyes once again roaming over his exposed flesh – so unlike the stout, strong bodies of the men fighting along your side. But this body, too, belongs to a warrior. It's slim, agile, built of nothing but bone, skin, muscle – built by his gods to serve its purpose. To fight. To kill. To fly, even, his bones so thin they might as well belong to a bird of prey.

  
The only thing that ties him to the ground seems to be a piece of cloth wound tightly around his neck. Curiosity stirs inside you again; it directs your steps towards the pale figure, one hand never loosening the grip over your sword, but the fingers of the other already itching impatiently to tear the cloth off Dughall's neck, make him dissolve in the darkness.

  
Pale hand comes between your prying digits and the man's neck. You grasp to wring it as a punishment only to be halted even more abruptly by the spy's gaze. His eyes are no longer colourless and unfocused; they're sharp with the fury of white flames that dare you to make a move and be consumed in their unforgiving heat.

  
"This is a symbol of my oath." _You are not allowed to touch it._

  
The moment is gone – but so is your willingness to push the stranger beyond his limits or test his loyalties. You push his clothes away to the side and order him to go. If he's wise, he'll head his own way, away from the warring clans; if he’s foolish, he'll return to his captors and be killed.

  
If he's enough of a fool to return to your side, you'll make a good use of him.

  
*******

The pale spy reappears two days later, the darkness of the night cloaking him against the prying eyes of gods and men. He stops at the border of the fire's light once again; not close enough to share its warmth as he reports to you of the sudden reinforcements. The idle Empire decided to aid their ally by giving them swords and spears, and shields that won't be broken in a single strike.

  
It seems unsettling at first. But Dughall, voice ringing with firm conviction, reasons this might as well be the only imperial help the Westerners shall receive. Swords and shields too heavy to move swiftly; long spears they know not how to carry… And even if they gain the upper hand, in the end they will be crushed. Neither of you doubts it in the slightest.

  
*******

  
Another two days pass. Just before the sun rises on the third, you feel a cold hand on your cheek, sliding along the line of your markings; you attack on impulse, only to have Dughall's other hand wrap firmly around your wrist, stopping the dagger inches before his chest. You swear the blow would pierce him through, so thin and ghost–like he seems.

  
"I've never noticed these," unfazed, he points to the side of your face and your arm. "A tribute to your Goddess…?"

"A reminder of the cruelty of Her kind, more likely… But it's not a story I have the time to tell now."

You speak no word of the fire set to your dwellings by the Westerners; about the desperate attempts to save every single house, save at least the essential belongings from the raging fire. About Niall standing in a ring of flames, trapped among the fallen logs, his bright eyes fixed on you, silently pleading for help; and the scorching tongues lapping at your skin, sucking at it greedily as you were running out, the unconscious boy heavy and lifeless in your arms.

Still, some of this must show on your face, because the spy nods curtly. Knowingly.

"A bond forged in flames," he murmurs, but asks no further.

When the camp begins to stir awake and Dughall makes a move to leave, you ask him how he travels between your camp and the place he's held captive at.

"Stole the guard's horse," he answers in a voice you could almost call mischievous. "It awaits me deeper in the woods."

  
*******

  
The war cry of the horns rings throughout the land. You have arrived at your destination, to the very threshold of the Westerners' settlement. When morning comes, you'll face each other in battle. And if the Goddess allows, in the evening you shall reside within the hall of your enemy as victors.

Dughall should have appeared on the hill hours ago. You figure out the force that had him protected so far finally failed and your spy met a gruesome end. But just when you have forsaken all thoughts about him, a shadow–clad silhouette appears at the edge of the woods; though his stride's slower than before, he reaches your post without much effort.

"Caught by one of Sionn's pets, of all things," he scoffs softly as you point out the uneven gashes across his arm and side.

New scars are not the only thing changed about him. The white flame has returned to his eyes, now burning with eagerness, radiating throughout his lithe body, ready to burst out and flood the world in light and scorching heat. Even when he remains silent, his lips quiver with anticipation of things to come. It's not the lust for battle as you've ever seen it; it runs deeper than the feverish blush on his neck and cheeks, so much deeper than the blood in his veins. It spreads from the very core of his being. Beckoning you. Beckoning to steal a taste of this madness.

"What will you do now?"

"And what _can_ I do, my lord? I have fulfilled my duty," your dagger, the same that had nearly struck Dughall's chest before, is handed to you, long, crooked fingers wrapped around the blade, "the rest is up to you."

He came to you as a servant, willing to risk his life for your cause. But he is not one of you. He's just a shadow in the dark; a black stranger who can disappear from your camp an reappear in the tent of the imperial soldier, promising him all that he had vowed to you. The oath of the white cloth bound around his neck might be nothing but a trick of a vicious spirit. Killing him when he allows it is what should be done.

It's all a matter of intuition and reflex. You hand reaches out, closes in a firm grasp. The dagger falls to the ground. The thin body is slammed against the tree with a force that should have broken every single bone within. You don't stop. You have no time to stop. Your mouth smashes against his and you taste the flame, the blood, taste the battle cry. You fall upon him like warriors crashing against their enemies, shattering shields and bones to dust. He writhes against you, trying to keep up, trying to push away and ends up clinging to your back, your neck, your hips, his claws burying deep, lashing through naked skin like a rain of arrows. You hoist him up, tearing at his clothes, pushing inside so roughly it makes him screech – a cry of Goddess' herald circling above the battlefield. You push against him, against every inch of his skin, wishing you could sink your fingers inside, rip his guts apart and release the fury of flame concealed within the squirming body.

"Ride out with me," you grunt, pushing in deeper with each thrust. "Ride out with me and I'll show you… The carnage, the blood, and oblivion. And you… Show me how much… How strong you can burn…!"

His chest heaves like a dying man's. But his eyes have never been clearer. The fire pulls you in, consumes you, bites down at your mouth and draws blood, sets dagger–sharp teeth against your throat and suddenly you drown, the song of the Goddess pouring into your ears in thunders of clashing swords and wails of the dying.

  
*******

  
The hall shakes with roars of triumph long into the night; tables bending beneath the weight of meat, cups filled to the brim and never seeming to empty. A feast prepared for another victor. For the men that are now facing the Goddess as she sips their blood spilled on the battlefield and crushes their bones between her long, clawed fingers. She had received the greatest of gifts – the bravest, fittest, most vicious warriors that had fallen with their last breath forced out of their lungs in her honour.

Tonight, the Goddess rejoices. Tonight, you celebrate.

You have lost many excellent fighters; the strong–headed Taog, stubbornly refusing to wait for the others; the witty Gormal whose laughter rang clearly above the battlefield until his throat was slit open; Maon and Laise, fighting and falling side by side like milk brothers.

Barra was one of the last to die by the enemy's hand. He fought like a vicious animal, ignoring the arrows piercing his broad back, the swords cutting through his skin. For him it was less than bug bites as he marched onwards, cutting down one warrior after another, fracturing skulls with his bare hands when his battle axe got lost among the chaos. And as he moved further and further away, he got surrounded by more of those vicious insects than he could shake off himself… Your grip on the cup tightens as you recall Faolan's blood–curdling howl as the youth saw his mountain of an uncle finally give in and fall to the ground – but not without crushing his ultimate killer's throat first.

The boy's the only one who doesn't rejoice, doesn't add to the memories of the fallen that are being wound into a new song of praise that will be sung for generations – even though there's no one who can remember Barra's shows of strength and cunning better than him. But Faolan's lips are sealed, his gaze focused on the ground. When you pause to think about it, you suddenly realize it is the first time he faced death and carnage, with the blood of his victims obscuring his vision and the blood in his own veins thundering in his ears. For the first time the Goddess reached out to guide his arrows and sword through the hearts and necks of his enemies, just to leave him again as he witnessed death.

It's a pathetic sight, you think as your eyes move away from the hunched figure in a seemingly futile attempt to spot another familiar face. You know he's not there. You lost sight of him on the battlefield. He moved like smoke, effortlessly, his sword just one of the gleams among the clashing bodies, his path marked by no less blood than you and your men have rinsed the soil with. He arrived and left unnoticed – but he did not die. The likes of him never do.

At some point of your reverie, the hall's gate slides ajar – and it's enough of an invitation for you to step outside. A gust of wind hits your chest when you move across the threshold to join your advisor in his wake.

His cheeks, you immediately notice, are still flushed in the afterglow of the battle; his chest still rises and falls heavily, bringing back the memories of the previous day, images of lust and carnage overlapping and blending into one another until you can't tell which is real and which was just a dream. 'Was any of it real?' is what you'd want to ask, but he resolves to speak just as you were about to.

"There's another battle awaiting us," the tone of his voice is as cold as the wind that is tearing at your cloak. But you can already sense the heat behind these words, the eagerness that is not unfamiliar to your own heart. "A darker, bloodier battle… Much greater than a petty squabble of two neighbouring clans…"

"Then we shall face it," you interrupt, "with strength and readiness. And if the Goddess so wishes, ride to our victory… Or death."

What you say is humble, rational – words of a true leader. But your tone is anything but. The mead surging through your system adds haughtiness to your voice, makes you look up and with a piercing gaze challenge the powers of Fate, challenge the Goddess herself, sitting on her throne beyond the veil of stars, gazing upon the offerings of her warriors. Should her piercing eyes rest upon you, your blasphemy will be punished. But you cannot bring yourself to care.

To fight the nameless Empire and push it beyond the sea. Send them back to where they came, away from your lands, rivers and hills; away from the settlements, from Niall and his crow. Nothing beyond that matters.

For a split second Dughall looks as if he wants to protest, maybe even chide you for insulting the gods. Whatever he might think about your antics, though, he gives no voice to these thoughts, settling for observing you from the corner of his colourless eye. Inside the hall rises an enormous uproar, as Faolan joins the others in toasting the fallen; the sound of his cries as he praises Barra, his strength and cunning in battle, carries through the crisp night air, all the way to the burial site where his uncle rests. You nod in approval; Dughall answers with a smile that is little more than a nervous quirk of his thin lips.

He doesn't follow as you head back inside.

  
*******

  
The Goddess would receive no praise from the slit throats of the soldiers, no glory from the severed arms and ripped out tongues of those who did not respect Her rule, did not honour Her name.

And for that reason, you were abandoned. Left at the mercy of the same spears that you had crushed in the hands of the Westerners; the same shields that wouldn't protect the warriors of the moorlands from your swords and axes. You fought with Her name upon your lips, with all the power and anger of your clan, the vicious children of the Goddess, feared by many and praised in songs of old. But the nameless soldiers that came from beyond the mass of grey waters withstood your fury; then, wave upon wave, crushed your shields, swords, and bones.

You fought a good fight. And yet, you've lost.

With the blood obscuring your vision it's hard to hold a steady gaze upon anything. You manage to focus on what was once your legs - strong legs of a warrior that could carry you wherever the gods commanded - trampled by the hooves of imperial horses, and, suddenly, laughter bubbles within the remains your chest. Unwanted and untamed, it bursts through your bloodied lips, filling your ears with sharp, painful cackle.

"A speckled fox crushed in the claws of the Eagle," a familiar voice breaks through the maddening cacophony.

Dughall becomes a tangible presence by your side as if he had been molded from the dust stirring in the air. When he kneels to look you in the eye, you feel your arm shooting out on reflex. At first you think it moves to clasp itself around the traitor's thin throat and crush it like a rotten fruit; but its fingers curl at the hem of the white cloth, pulling it down to reveal a thick gash of angry crimson, deep enough to pass through muscle and bone. The sight is oddly calming.

"I thought She had no servants like… You."

"It is not the Goddess we serve, although we follow in Her footsteps… And as of lately," the crow murmurs, wiping the blood off your eyes with his thumb, "I have a different master still."

For a moment, his sharp eyes become those of a boy you've left behind in your home village and everything becomes clear. That naive, fragile child. Hoping, perhaps, that with the crow's protection you'd become invincible. A warrior that death cannot reach, for it is bound to serve him. Bound by the order of a doe–eyed child who barely escaped its claws himself… Were any strength left in your lungs, you'd burst out laughing again.

"What do you want with me?" you ask him sharply instead, ignoring the coppery taste that fills your mouth. "Your work is done."

The crow smirks at your arrogance; his pale face looms above yours, gaze turning feral. A predator observing the final struggle of his prey.

"I am supposed to bring you before the Goddess."

_But she wouldn't appreciate you_ , the fever–stricken eyes tell you, _wouldn't appreciate what you were, the strength of your arm and the blasphemy of your tongue_.

_And if she is not the mistress of my Fate_ , the crow’s smile tells you, _why should She be of yours_?

Your body feels cold, colder than in the harshest winter, when you were still young, lost within a snowstorm and hiding from the beasts of ice beneath the tree roots. Your head begins to swim, the vision of the crow's long face blurring and fading in and out of the blackness.

"The boy…" you rasp out as a hand comes down to close your eyes. "If you return to him, let the boy know he's not at fault."

The crow mouths his answer against your chapped lips before biting down on your last breath and drawing life out of the shell that was once your body. You're never told that the boy you once saved from the flames died as soon as the crow left his side.

 

*******

  
Above the battlefield, a flock of scavengers circles impatiently. Some of the braver ones have already landed, picking through the corpses in search of the tastiest scraps of flesh to feast on and slivers of souls they could carry back before their Mistress. But not one dares to interrupt the crow’s feast; his prey was marked with his own claws in signs of flame long before the battle took place. Against the unforgiving sky, the black silhouettes raise their lament, wishing the Goddess would hear the cries and come down upon the traitor in a jealous rage.

  
Nobody heeds their call.

 


End file.
